| I I know not why I am so loath to lay Your yellow leaves along the glowing log, Unburied dead, that cling about and clog — With indisputable, insistent say Of the stout past's all inefficient fray — The striving present, rising like a fog To rust the active in me, that am a cog In the great wheel of industry today. Yet, somehow, in this visible farewell To the crude symbols of a simpler creed, I find a pain that had not parallel When passed the faith itself, — we give small heed To incorporeal truth, let slack or swell; But truth made tangible, is truth indeed. |
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